A Light That Never Goes Out
by coffeeandcas
Summary: Dean Winchester is a Homicide Detective working in Kansas City. He loves his job, his husband, and his dog. It's 3am on a Friday night and he's just been called to the scene of a violent rape and attempted murder outside a gay bar in town. When he arrives, he's met with a scene he never imagined he would encounter even in his wildest nightmares. The victim is his husband, Castiel.
1. Chapter 1

**24th January**

"So! Have you had a good day?" Happy, Castiel plops down on the couch next to Dean and tucks one leg underneath him, a steaming cup of hot chocolate cradled in both hands. His cable-knit sweater is a little large from him - a Christmas present from his brother - and he's red-cheeked from sitting too close to the crackling fire as he watched Dean open his birthday presents. His boyfriend's eyes are sparkling and he's gorgeous to behold - Dean can't resist leaning in for a kiss.

"I've had the best day. You spoil me, sweetheart." Dean has the Zepp vinyl on his lap, has been clinging to it ever since he unwrapped it. It's a rare edition, one of the few Dean doesn't have, and he's over the moon with the gift. It must have taken Cas ages to track it down. "Thank you. So much."

Cas shrugs with a smile. "Happy birthday. See, turning thirty-five isn't so bad."

"It could be worse." Dean kisses Cas again, closed-mouthed but considering seeking more, and frowns in confusion when his partner pulls away. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Cas fidgets, avoiding his gaze. "I, um, have something else for you. It's only small!" He hurried to add as Dean opens his mouth to protest. "But I hope you'll like it."

Their dog, Ruby, sits up in interest and wags her tail; Dean glances at her and narrows his eyes. What does she know? But suddenly he's looking back at Cas, open-mouthed and rendered speechless. Cas is holding his hand out to Dean, palm up, and there's a green leather box in it and all the feeling rushes out of Dean's hands and feet as his heart pounds with shocked excitement. No… Cas can't be… he's…

"Dean," Cas is blushing furiously, his cup held in one shaking hand as he clearly tries to make out like this isn't the biggest deal in the entire fucking goddamn world. "I've been thinking and I wondered… I hoped… um…"

"Yes?" Dean prompts, unable to stop a shit-eating grin from spreading across his face. He grips the record in his hands so tightly he could fracture it. Cas' eyes shoot up to meet his and he seems to draw confidence from Dean's reaction.

"Do you want… I mean, would you like to… oh, I'm fucking this up." Cas coughs, clears his throat, then says in a voice a few octaves higher than usual: "Dean, I just love you, all right? And I hoped… will you marry me?"

There's a silence, just for the length of a heartbeat, maybe two. Cas' blue eyes are wide with nerves and he's breathing a little fast. Dean is…

"You… I can't believe you…" Dean isn't a crier. He doesn't cry. But tonight he does, his body taking over and sending silvery tears down his cheeks as Cas opens the ring box with a thumb and shows him the platinum band nestled on a velvet cushion. "Yes. Yes, Cas, a hundred times yes."

And he launches himself at Cas, making sure to slide the vinyl to one side and to grip the hand holding the ring with the other to keep it safe as Cas bursts out laughing. Hot chocolate goes everywhere and Cas pushes the ring onto Dean's finger with trembling hands as they laugh and kiss and smile through the happiest tears. It's the best birthday Dean has ever, ever had.

 **Present Day**

Dean should be used to the flashing lights of the emergency services by now. Seven years total in the police force: three as an officer, two as a crime scene investigator, and now he's closing in on his third year as a Homicide Detective. He loves his job, despite the gut-wrenching highs and lows that accompany it, and he's proud of how far he's come. He's not a high-school dropout living in his father's car anymore, no sir. He helps people. He saves people, and even when he can't he brings justice to those who have had their lives cruelly ripped away from them. He brings closure to bereaved families. He takes threats off the streets and chucks them behind bars. He watches the bad guys rot, and it satisfies him. He's known on the force for taking no prisoners, and for being charming right up to the strike point. Mesmerising, gaining trust, then going in for the kill. He sometimes thinks there may be some truth in the nickname of 'Cobra' that his Academy roommate had slapped onto him in their third month of knowing each other.

The lights are like a beacon to him. A signal that he's needed, and they guide him to the destination. When he's working a case he's focused, driven, has sleepless nights and works himself to the bone until he makes a breakthrough. He's been called a workaholic many a time but he just smiles and shrugs it off. It's just the way he works, and it's the reason he has such a high success record. He's relentless, never gives in. Will never, ever give up until every avenue is utterly exhausted. Does it affect his home life? He doesn't think so, and he's never been given any reason to think Castiel is anything but happy with him. Castiel's job is busy too and he keeps odd hours, so they work well as a team. More often than not, Dean will wake with a start after having a sudden breakthrough on a case and come downstairs to head to the station and find Cas at their kitchen table with his glasses on, frowning, and working tirelessly through a translation. They laugh about it: Castiel jokes that they're like passing ships. That he sees more of their Akita-cross-whatever than he does of Dean. But it's never, ever been a problem, not really. It's just the job. The thrill of the chase. The sound of screeching brakes and doors slamming and coffee machines, paperwork rustling, marker pens on whiteboards, voices scrambling to talk over each other in excitement.

But the lights, they still make him feel nauseous from time to time. Still send spikes of adrenaline-fuelled anxiety pulsing through him, still make his palms sweat and his heart beat out a staccato rhythm against his ribs. For he never knows what he's going to find, not really. He can form mental pictures, prepare himself for the worst, but even now he's still shocked and disgusted by the scenes he's forced to confront. He's grown adept at hiding those reactions over the years so that now everyone just sees him as cool, detached, focused and professional. The guy they bring in to make it right. To catch the killer. To close the case. His reputation precedes him by a light year and he's closing in on a promotion. It's only when he's at home after his shift has finished and he's unbuckled his holster that he can finally let his true emotions show through the cracks. It's a difficult job, raw on the nerves no doubt about it. But it's his job, his calling, and he loves the burn.

The lights should be his cue. His command, his on-switch, his instruction to tighten his belt, dust off his palms and slap on his mask of professionalism to tackle a new case. But not tonight. For a reason far beyond his grasp, he can't get out of the car. Something feels wrong, off, disjointed. He's driven with a heavy knot of concern in his stomach, his fingers tapping out a rhythm on the wheel as his favourite Zeppelin album failed to calm his nerves. He had tried calling his husband, seeking comfort, but the call had rolled straight to voicemail. That isn't uncommon: Castiel normally turns his phone off for bed and Dean normally doesn't care. But tonight he aches for reassurance, reassurance that hasn't come. Something is wrong, he can feel it deep in the marrow of his bones. Something has happened, and he can't shake the notion that his life is about to tilt violently on its axis. He wishes fervently that Castiel, his husband of nine weeks, three days and fourteen hours, had answered his call. He still can't get used to the word: husband. He loves it more than he can explain, and every time he says it to anyone a shit-eating grin spreads across his face that he just can't hold in. He introduces Cas as his husband to everyone, pulling him just a little closer as he says the word, blushing and smiling and watching as Cas' reaction echoes his. Their friends laugh at them for it, but they don't care. They're young (relatively) and in love (absolutely). And Dean has never been happier.

He exhales a couple of times and reaches for the handle, opening the door and stepping out into the cool night air. For 3am the street is crowded with folk craning their necks to see what's going on. Damn rubberneckers. They're on the very edge of a bad part of town; right around the corner there's a fancy restaurant with a maître d and expensive wine - he knows it's expensive because the Sauvignon there is Castiel's favourite - and around another corner there are bullet holes in the walls. Hazard of the city, he supposes. But this street, the one he's on, he's familiar with. It's where he and Castiel met, years ago, and he feels a pang of nostalgia as he walks down the street towards the small crowd gathered around the emergency services. He flashes his badge to a stern-looking cop who lets him duck under the tape and immediately spots his Chief, Ellen Harvelle, talking intently with two other officers. One of them is his buddy, DI Lafitte, the one who called him and requested he attend the crime scene. The call had been difficult to understand thanks to constant bursts of static down the line and the wail of an approaching ambulance in the background, but Dean had got the location and hopped in his car right away, never one to drag his feet. But it was on the journey over that things started to feel off; his skin began to crawl and he felt bile rising in his throat for no reason he could fathom. There was something in Lafitte's wording, something in his voice. Something unidentifiable, and he had pressed down on the gas a little harder. He glances up at the bar - it's closed and the white-faced owner is in the crowd, chewing her nails and staring over towards a darkened alley where he can see medics crouching over someone lying sprawled on the ground under hastily-erected floodlights. If they're working on him at the scene the poor SOB likely isn't long for this world. Either that or he needs a miracle. The ground beneath their scrubs and trainers is blood-stained and the air tastes of grim determination. They all want to go home with a success story on their lips. But something tells Dean that ain't gonna happen.

Dean approaches Harvelle and Lafitte at the same time as a blonde, lanky paramedic does. He watches as the other guy strips off blood-drenched latex gloves and wipes sweat from his brow, turning to address the Chief just as Dean reaches the small group, overhearing their conversation.

"He's stable enough to travel, but it ain't looking good. We'll head to City - should we expect to see his any family there?"

"His family has already been called," Harvelle says with a strange, uncharacteristic softness to her voice, and her eyes land on Dean as she speaks, not helping to take the edge off his nerves. She's an older lady who scared the life out of Dean when he first came to work for her, fresh-faced and eager. Now she's like a surrogate mother to him - and is still as scary, he blonde hair pulled back tightly from her face and frown lines between her brows. "We'll follow."

From down the alleyway, there's the sound of another paramedic speaking, a woman this time. "On my count: one… two…" And Dean shivers in the autumnal chill. A few feet away he hears another uniformed cop speaking into a radio - 'rape...aggravated assault...attempted murder...' - and he knows this is going to be a bad one. The expressions on the faces of his colleagues seem more grave than usual, and he doesn't quite like the way Harvelle is eyeing him.

"So, what's the deal, boss?" He tries for a grin and knows it doesn't quite reach his lips. "Did I hear wrong or is the guy still in the land of the living? Because, and no disrespect ma'am, but if there ain't a corpse down that alley then why am I here?"

The very fact that she doesn't clap him around the head for his sass is the giveaway that something is very wrong. This isn't a normal crime scene, not for him. Ellen Harvelle's eyes are grave and she opens and closes her mouth, apparently lost for words. Another fact that sends chills down his spine. His palms feel damp.

"Chief?" Even to his own ears, his voice is hesitant. "What's going on?"

It's Benny Lafitte who answers him; he's Dean's best friend on the force and has been with him since the Academy. He's the one responsible for the nickname. He's a big guy, intimidating to look at but kind-hearted and fair, and with a large amount of affection for those he holds dear. So when Benny's large hand comes to rest firmly on his shoulder, he knows something bad is coming.

"It's Cas, brother," Benny's voice is soft but firm, but the words just don't make sense to Dean. What's Cas?

Down the alley, the paramedics have the victim on a gurney and Dean can see him better now: he's strapped to a backboard and restrained with a neck brace, and there's a tube going into his mouth. One of the female paramedics, blonde hair in a swinging ponytail, is squeezing a bag regularly, pumping air into the man's lungs - he clearly isn't breathing for himself, or if he is then he isn't doing it well. There's a lot of blood matting his hair together and coating his face, combined with what looks like chunks of shredded flesh and, beneath it, the snatches of skin that Dean can see are ashen, a horrible grey colour. Tubes filled with clear liquid tangle together and disappear under ripped clothing to where he knows they'll penetrate skin, seeking veins, and the guy is hooked up to a heart-rate monitor which is beeping out a rhythm: too slow, too weak. The vic looks to be at death's door.

"What's Cas?" Dean can't take his eyes off the victim; he can't see his face properly thanks to the blood and gore, the bodies moving swiftly around him, and the tube forcing his breath into his lungs. "Benny..." He feels a strange sensation of falling and reaches out for his colleague. Benny grips both his hands tightly, grounding him. "What do you mean? Benny, what are you saying?"

"Dean, whatever happens, we're here for you." Ellen, Harvelle, the Chief, she's speaking now and Dean's head is spinning. Nothing makes sense. Castiel is at home, in bed, asleep. Dean knows that, Dean spoke to him only two hours ago. "Whatever you and Cas need, we'll do whatever we can to provide it."

"I don't... I don't understand." Dean shakes his head slowly in an attempt to clear it but there's a low hum in his ears now, white noise, and it's only getting louder. "You're saying that... the vic, that he... no." He comes to a sudden, firm decision and shakes his head, his vision and ears clearing. "You're wrong, sorry, Chief, but you're mistaken. I spoke to Cas a while ago, he's at home. I'm calling him, right now, just let me..." He whips his phone out with trembling hands and speed-dials his husband. The call rolls to voicemail and he hears the low, gravelly voice saying, 'You have reached my voicemail...' and he hangs up with a savage jab at his screen. He almost doesn't dare look up, but when he does he sees Benny's eyes dark and sad, full of concern. "It's fine. Cas never has his phone on when he's asleep. I'll just... I can just..."

At that moment someone nudges him gently, pushing him back, and the paramedics push the gurney past the small group of officers huddled together. Dean can't help it; he takes an automatic step towards the victim, the victim he's certain isn't Cas, then another step. He's still too far away to see his face properly, but as his gaze lands on the man's arm his heart stops in his chest. A white strip of bloody gauze covers part of the man's forearm, and below that stretches an expanse of tanned skin, turned golden from hours spent out running in the sunshine, and a slim wrist with strong hands, fingers curling gently but unmoving, and on the left ring finger is a silver band with deep script etched into it. It's sickeningly familiar and Dean feels his world tilt as he stumbles and Benny grabs him around the waist for support. He knows that ring. He put that ring on Castiel's finger not three months ago, and he's seen it every day since then. Every morning when he wakes up he admires it, thinks about what it means and smiles. He knows that ring. That's Castiel's wedding ring. Bile rises in his throat and an internal voice starts up a low mantra of no, no, no...

"Cas..." His voice breaks as he steps forward again, numb hands shoving a paramedic out of the way a little too roughly. "Cas? Cas!"

Then he's right there, beside the bloodied, pale face of his husband and it's a struggle to breathe. Benny's hands are there, warm and supportive on his back and shoulder, but he can't see anything but Cas. Cas, lying there with his eyes closed looking on the verge of death, face caked with fresh and dried blood, unable to breathe for himself... Dean's vision blurs then clears again. A paramedic tries to move him gently out of the way and he pushes back, hard.

"No! Stop it, what are you doing to him? What have you done? Cas, Cas, wake up! Open your eyes, come on. Cas!" This isn't happening. This can't be happening. This is a bad dream: Dean has dozed off in his car after too many doughnuts and is having a nightmare. Frantic, he pushes up his sleeve and pinches his own skin, hard, but nothing around him changes. He does it again, his nails digging in deep enough to leave crescent moon indents, but the scenery remains the same. The bustling emergency services. The grave, pitying expressions. The bloody gauze and ashen skin. The lights. "Cas..." He leans down, close to his husband and tries to take his hand. "Cas... come on, man, wake up. I love you. I need you. Cas, please..."

Benny succeeds in pulling Dean back just far enough so that the medics can get Cas into the ambulance. And almost immediately there's a horrific sound from one of the monitors and Dean's heart freezes in his chest as the medics move more urgently and one of them shouts something about chest compressions. No. No, no, no...

"What the hell is going on?" Wild, Dean turns on his Chief who stands firm in the onslaught of his emotions and lets him explode. "What the hell is he doing here? And what happened? Who called it in? What leads have you got, what..."

The ambulance doors slam with a terrible, horrifying finality and Dean sways again, his ire flooding out of him as quickly as it had come, to be replaced by... nothing. Terrifying, all-consuming numbness. He's seen this happen to family members at crime scenes and knows exactly why they meet them at the hospital or down at the station where possible. The fear, the anger, the shock... it isn't helpful to anyone, and he starts to shake as his mind replays images of Cas. Cas smiling, Cas laughing, Cas talking on the phone, Cas lying on the sofa asleep after reading, Cas on their first date, on the night they met, at their wedding... Cas lying bloody and motionless in front of his eyes...

"Dean." Benny grips his shoulder once more. "Get in the car, I'll take you to the hospital. C'mon, brother."

"No... I have to ride with... with Cas..." He turns sluggishly, but the ambulance is already pulling away and the sirens wail, making them all start with shock. Benny takes his arm and his other hand comes to Dean's back, supporting him.

"Let's go, brother. We'll meet them there. They need space to work on him."

"Benny," Dean turns wide, unseeing eyes on his colleague, his closest friend. "What the hell happened to him?" The gaze he receives in return is all the answer he needs.

"Do you really wanna know right now, cher?" It's Benny's pet name for him, has been for years ever since they… anyway, it's a long-standing nickname that only comes out in intense circumstances these days. Dean nods wordlessly and Benny visibly tenses up then sighs. "Alright. Call was from a passer-by, found him out cold in the alley and strugglin' to breathe. He's… Dean, he's been raped," The word doesn't register, not really. Dean nods at him to continue, face and knuckles stark white. "Initial medical assessment says broken ribs, broken arm, but they'll heal. That ain't the worst of it. Dean, someone wanted to hurt him. Wanted him never to be able to talk about this." Benny's gaze drifts off, over towards the dark alley where the forensics team are moving in. "Tyre iron to the head. It's bad, Dean. We need to get you to the hospital. You need to be with him."

"But why…" The words stick in his throat. He isn't processing this at all. He's numb, completely. Benny says something to Harvelle who nods once at him then tries to send a reassuring smile in Dean's direction. He can't return it. Benny guides him with a firm hand on his lower back over to his cop car and opens the door for him. When they're both inside and the car is pulling away from the curb, Dean manages to make his vocal cords work. "Why was Cas here? It's 3am, Benny. Why was he out at a bar? He should have been… I thought he was at home."

"I don't know, brother. But we'll find out and we'll catch the monster who dared mess with one of our own and we'll skin him alive. I swear it to you, cher."

Dean leans back against his seat and tries to remember how to breathe. That voice in his head isn't saying no any more. It's asking why. Why Cas, why tonight, why here, why? Just… why?

Benny is mercifully silent on the drive to City Hospital and Dean's hands go numb. He sits ramrod straight, his breath coming in low, shallow gasps and he can't think through the white noise in his mind as the police car speeds through the city in the wake of the ambulance. The sirens wail, agony to his ears, and like all cops he knows the significance of the sirens. Before Dean started as a cop he thought sirens were just a mandatory part of an ambulance journey, and swiftly found out that he was wrong. They're used sparingly so as not to panic the patient or risk causing a crash as drivers scramble to get out of the way. So in most cases, the journey is a silent one. But sirens and lights en route to the hospital? They mean the patient under the care of the paramedics is in a severe condition and their life is hanging in the balance.

The blue and red flashing lights bounce off every surface, casting dark, menacing shadows and hurting his burning eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

The hospital is too warm and smells too strongly of disinfectant. Dean feels dizzy the moment he steps through the doors and only Benny's hand on his back stops his knees from buckling. He hates hospitals with a burning passion, and knows he isn't alone in that. The first time he remembers being in the emergency room he was four, his skin marked with soot and ash, being told his mother was dead as his father broke down sobbing; those were the after-effects of a house fire. Then, years later, he was a brave-faced twenty-year-old saying goodbye to his father as the man struggled on a ventilator and his heart eventually gave out. John Winchester drank himself to death following the loss of Mary, had never been the same since, and left Dean to fend for himself and take care of his younger brother, a responsibility he wasn't ready for. Dean had prayed that night, for the first time. Prayed that his father found the peace in death that he hadn't reached in life, and prayed his mother would look after him in Heaven. He didn't really believe in God or Heaven or angels, but it felt like the right thing to do at the time.

Everything happens in a confusing, terrifying blur. Dean hasn't been on this side of the fence in years, and slotting into the role of the victim's family isn't coming easy. He keeps asking Benny why, why Cas was there, why him, and his colleague has no answers for him. He just squeezes Dean's shoulder and waits with him, for what feels like hours, while nurses and surgeons hurry past and ask him questions he struggles to answer while they shove forms under his nose, requesting he sign them. He scribbles his signature with shaking hands, no idea what he's consenting to but knowing that it's the only possible way to save Cas' life. Eventually, the doctor appears and heads towards him, looking tired and drawn; he's older, serious-looking, dark-skinned and balding with a close-cut greying beard, and Dean immediately trusts him with Cas' life. He looks like he's saved thousands of people over the course of his career, now it's Cas he needs to save. Hours have passed, but how many Dean has no idea. He stands, sways, and is held steady by Benny.

"Dean, take a seat, please." The doctor pulls a chair up too, looking grave as Benny settles Dean on a plastic chair and, after a second's hesitation, reaches over to take his hand. "I'm Dr. Webber, I'm the chief of surgery here at City Hospital. We've managed to get your husband stabilised and we're taking him for a CT scan in a few minutes. But I have to be honest with you, Dean, his condition is serious. He's suffered major head trauma and loss of blood from the knife wounds-"

"He… he was stabbed?" Dean pales further, looking to Benny with wide eyes. Benny looks just as shocked as he feels. Webber looks apologetic, clearly assuming (wrongly) that Dean was aware of that little fact. It makes his stomach roil nastily. The idea of Cas getting stabbed… The idea of any of this. He must have been terrified. And… God. Dean covers his face with his hands. Was this before or after he was… was… He can't even think the word let alone voice it. The doctor's hand comes into his focus, drawing him back.

"Yes, Dean, he was stabbed. Twice. I'm so sorry. I know this is difficult to hear but it's important that you know all the facts." The 'so you can prepare yourself' goes unsaid. "Once in the abdomen and once in the chest, dangerously near his heart - the knife missed the right ventricle by half a centimetre; any closer and he would have bled out before anyone reached him. He was…" Webber doesn't say it, he doesn't say lucky which is a wise decision on his part. Lucky isn't a word that Dean will ever, in any sense associate with this situation. "We had our best surgeons work on him. Dr. Yang is our cardiac specialist and she oversaw everything in case there was a problem, but he's out of surgery. We've managed to get the bleeding under control, have given him two transfusions and he's in recovery. But it's the head injury we're concerned about. Trauma of this magnitude can be difficult to assess until we know the extent of the damage, which may not be until tomorrow or the following day thanks to the swelling…"

Dean loses track of the man's words. It's bad. Really bad. And it's starting to sink in that he might actually lose Cas, his husband, his husband of only five fucking minutes. Why? What was Cas doing there so late? What was he doing there at all? Nothing makes sense, and he pinches himself again for the hundredth time, just to be sure he isn't in some lucid nightmare. He now has an angry red mark on his forearm, bruising starting to show in the shape of his nails and he stares at it, transfixed. Cas would hate to see the mark, he always hates to see Dean's skin marked with any bruises or cuts but in his line of work it happens occasionally. The last time Dean was in a hospital, he was the patient. He had been injured in the line of duty, not critically but it had shaken them both up. He had been chasing a suspect through town, late at night, and didn't look both ways at an intersection. He went up and over the hood of a speeding Mustang to crash painfully onto the tarmac, breaking his arm and his collarbone and winding up with plenty of cuts and scrapes for Cas to fret over. He had smacked his head on the ground, hard, and blacked out, waking up hours later with a concussion and with no memory of what had happened, only Cas' anxious face and wide blue eyes, and the smell of disinfectant. That was almost exactly a year before Cas' proposal. But that… That doesn't even compare to what has been inflicted on Castiel tonight. Because that was an accident. And this was intentional. Whoever attacked Cas in that alley had thought it through, and didn't plan on Cas living to tell the tale.

"Brother," Benny pulls him back into the conversation with a hand on his knee. "You gotta listen, cher. I know it's hard…"

Dean swallows and nods, staring at his clenched fists as Webber firmly but gently tells them of Cas' other injuries. Broken radius and dislocated elbow, probably from trying to flee from his attacker. Broken ribs, most likely from being kicked. And, in Webber's own words, 'injuries conducive with a violent rape', which makes bile rise in Dean's mouth. Then another kicker: tox screen shows a date rape drug. Only traces, only enough to confuse him and dampen his reflexes, but it's there. Someone had drugged Cas, his Cas, with the intent of harming him. Dean's stomach lurches and he can't control himself: he only just manages to turn to the side before he's sick all over the chair and the floor beside him, and tears stream down his face as he coughs and chokes. Benny rubs his back and murmurs empty words of comfort while the doctor calls for a nurse who appears as if by magic and shoves a cardboard tub under his mouth. He vomits again, the tangy, acidic smell of bile triggering a second wave of uncontrollable nausea and he sobs in between retches. His hands clench down on Benny's arm tightly and he gives in to his grief as it hits in a violent, unrelenting wave.

"Cas… Cas," He's gasping for breath as tears pour down his cheeks and Benny pulls him into an upright position and hugs him tightly. "Who did this… I'll kill them, I'll find them and I'll fucking kill them… Cas!"

"I know, brother. And I'll hold the bastard down while you do. We'll find them, cher. And Cas will get through this. You'll both get through this."

"What if he dies?" The words spill from Dean's lips without his consent. "What if he dies, Benny? I can't lose him, I can't. He's my whole life, he's everything. It's me, I'm meant to be in the firing line. It's my job that's dangerous, anything bad should happen to me, not him. He's a librarian! He's meant to be safe! I'm meant to keep him safe!" The words come out in wild, hiccoughed cries and he clings tighter as Benny murmurs into his hair. Dr. Webber has vanished, giving them space and time, and Dean's vision is blurry through his tears. Dimly, he hears someone call his name then Sam, his younger brother, is crashing to his knees in front of him and cupping his face, eyes wide and horrified. Benny passes Dean over to Sam, and they hold each other tightly as Dean cries it all out, terrified and feeling as though the world has stopped turning.

Later, after years have passed in Dean's slow-moving concept of space and time, a different doctor appears with a younger woman in tow, and their faces are solemn.

"Dean Winchester? I'm Derek Shepherd, I'm the neurosurgeon assigned to Castiel's case." The word 'neurosurgeon' sends a bolt of fear right into Dean's stomach. "This is my colleague, Dr. Meredith Gray. We want you to know Castiel is in very safe hands and we're going to do everything we can for him."

Dean doesn't trust his legs to hold him up and Shepherd places a hand on his shoulder to stop him from trying, taking a seat opposite him instead and steeling his fingers, clearly considering his words carefully. He's worried. Cas' head injury is bad: the guy hit him from behind as he was trying to crawl or stagger away, and the tyre iron caught him behind his ear, fracturing his skull and causing internal bleeding. The initial CT scan is inconclusive thanks to the swelling, and they're planning to monitor him closely but Dean needs to prepare himself that Cas might need emergency surgery. And that he may or may not recover from this. It doesn't sink in. The words just don't hold any meaning to Dean. He listens, tries to understand, but he can't. His hand is in Sam's lap and being gripped tightly but he can barely feel the touch. He stares ahead, unseeing, and just nods as the doctor queries whether he's understood or not. Right now, right at this second, there's only one thing he wants to know.

"Can I see him?"

"Not yet," Shepherd, bright-eyed and gentle with dark wavy hair, looks regretful but firm. Behind him, the face of his colleague is kind yet pitying, and Dean hates that look. He wants nobody's pity. "Another hour or two. We want to monitor him closely and we want to run another CT if anything changes at all. I'll let you know when you can go up." He places a hand on Dean's knee and Dean stares at it as though it's an alien appendage. "I'm so, so sorry. Please know we're doing all we can. I know that the waiting is the hard part. I'll be back as soon as I can."

Then he's gone and Sam is trying to talk to him, but Dean just can't. He can't listen, can't speak, can't function. The man he bases his whole life around is upstairs in a cold, unfamiliar room and to all intents and purposes he's dying. The life is ebbing from his body and doctors with scalpels and machines are keeping him alive. Dean buries his hot face in his hands but the tears won't come. Cas has a head injury and it's bad. Cas might need further surgery and he's up there alone. Cas has been stabbed. Cas has been raped. The Detective in him knows that it won't be long before officers turn up, if they aren't up there already, to take DNA samples from the unconscious body of his husband who can't consent to anyone touching him. Dean has to consent on his behalf and probably already has, his scribbled signature on forms he didn't read the only evidence that they're allowed to do what they need to do to find this guy. Because they will find this guy. And when they do? He's going to wish he was dead.

"Dean," Sam's voice is close by and he sounds like he's been trying to get his attention for a while. "I'm going to try and get some more information from the doctors, OK? Where's Benny?"

"He's…" Dean's mouth is sticky and his voice doesn't want to work properly. "He's gone to our place to get Cas' laptop. Gonna try and work out what the hell he was doing there." He turns wide, traumatised eyes on his brother. "He was at home, in bed. I talked to him, Sammy. Like, a few hours ago. He couldn't sleep. I talked to him until he felt better and… and we said goodnight. I told him I'd be home before dawn and… and that I'd make him breakfast…"

More tears come, sliding helplessly down his cheeks. It shouldn't be like this. He should be walking in the front door of their little house in the suburbs with the white picket fence and the dog kennel in the garden. Cas loves their neighbourhood, loves how green it is and loves the restaurants and bars, frequently taking Dean to sample new cuisine or to see the decor of a new cafe he's found. He should be walking up the stairs right now, quietly so as not to wake anyone, and pushing the bedroom door open. He should be rolling his eyes at Ruby, curled up at the foot of the bed keeping Cas company while he sleeps. He should be climbing onto the bed, on top of the sheets and fully clothed, hugging Cas close and kissing his neck until he wakes just enough for them to exchange warm morning kisses, then he should be going back downstairs to make coffee and prepare breakfast. Cas is an early riser, is always up with the dawn, wandering downstairs in his patterned PJ pants and cable-knit sweater, rubbing his eyes and kissing Dean good morning. Whispering, 'morning, husband' against his skin and smiling. Cas should be smiling.

Cas is dying.

"Dean." Sam takes his shoulder. "Go outside and get some air, OK? I'll talk to the doctors and see if I can get any more information, go get us some coffee and I'll meet you back here in twenty. He'll be alright, Dean. He will. He's strong, you know it. You both are."

But the look in Sam's eyes doesn't brace his words. He looks terrified, a man trying to comfort his older brother when he knows the outlook is bleak. Dean just nods, and he's alone a moment later. He rises on unsteady legs and somehow manages to find his way outside. Dawn is threatening, the skies turning pale, and the wind is cold on his exposed skin. He leans heavily against the wall, all his weight braced on one hand, and tries to get himself under control. Tries to remember what he does for a living and how he should be reacting. But, as he well knows, there's no rule book on trauma. No list of instructions to follow. He should be an expert in grief but he's floundering. Raw, all-consuming anger rises up within him and he grits his teeth. Who the fuck did this to Cas? To them? He should be upstairs with Cas, reassuring him and holding his hand, not out here unable to do fucking anything! 'Wait', the doctors told him. 'There's nothing you can do but wait. We're looking after him.' Wait.

"I should be looking after him!" The words leave him in a ragged sob. "That's my job! Mine!"

He doesn't register the pain as his fist hits the brick in front of him. He hears the crack, sees the blood splatter the wall and feels it on his face. But he doesn't feel it, it doesn't hurt. So he does it again. And again, and again until it hurts and he's sobbing with his forehead against the wall, trying in vain to claw himself back to some semblance of composure. It takes a while, but he manages, and when he lifts off the wall to walk back inside the sound of a car pulling away from the hospital draws the attention of his bloodshot eyes. It's a cab. And, almost without realising what he's doing, he raises his bloodied hand to hail it.

He doesn't have to stand out here and wait. He doesn't have to do nothing while Cas' life hangs in the balance. He can't go up there and perform miracles, but there's one thing he knows for sure he can do.

His job.

 **February**

"Hey. Heart Eyes. Snap out of it." Sam snaps his fingers in front of Dean's face with a smirk, waving a beer at him with the other hand. He's caught his brother red-handed: staring with sickly-sweet goggle eyes at his new fiancé. It's so gross he could puke, but he's genuinely really happy for them both. They're clearly in love, have been for a long time, and marriage is only natural progression once a couple have moved in together and bought a dog. Well, Dean acquired Cas' dog, more like. As if on cue, Ruby noses at Sam's hand and he grins down at her, ruffling her ears.

It's a chilly February evening and he and Jess have descended on Dean and Castiel for a beer and burger night. It's turned, as it always does, into a wine and board game night at the request of Cas and, surprisingly, the backing of Dean. His brother had shrugged, open-armed with his palms up to the ceiling as if to say, 'whatever he wants, he gets' and Sam had grinned tremendously. Dean Winchester, being told what to do. He never thought he would see the day.

He likes Castiel tremendously. He remembers the week they met vividly because Dean just couldn't shut up about the cute guy he had met at a bar and how they had talked about their favourite authors for hours and it had all felt so natural. Apparently the bartender eventually had to ask them to leave because they'd stayed an hour past closing, and Castiel had been so embarrassed that he had tipped the guy all his cab money and wound up stranded and unable to get home. That was Dean's excuse for them sleeping together on their first date. Dean had even given his number out the morning after, a very rare occurrence and a sign that the guy must be something special and Dean had been like a lovesick puppy for ages afterward.

A few weeks later, his brother had appeared at Sam's house, drunk and vengeful, and Sam had been so alarmed he had dragged him inside and forced an espresso down him, then had demanded he talk about what was going on. Dean had, in broken sentences amid threats of violence, divulged to Sam that Castiel had been abused by an ex and that he still bore the physical scars of the violence. Dean had managed to keep his cool during their date, comforting and reassuring Cas that it didn't change how he felt, but in the privacy of his car on the way home he had seen red and wanted to rip apart the monster who dared injure Cas in such a permanent way. It had been the first sign that Dean was in love; he had never felt or reacted so strongly to anyone before and when Sam informed him of that fact his brother had been stunned into silence. He had repeated the words 'I'm in love' over and over again until they were just one long, garbled slur. Then, going against all of Sam's hurried advice, he had called Cas up and told him so - then had been shocked when the call was abruptly ended with a freaked out, 'oh, God, Dean'. They had only been on four dates.

But it worked out in the end. They had got past the drunken confession of love and can even laugh about it now. It will certainly be in Sam's best man speech at the wedding, and probably in Castiel's too. It's one of Cas' favourite stories to tell: Dean calling him up an hour after their date and slurring that he loves him and that they should get married. He jokes that they've actually been secretly engaged since then, and Dean always smiles and blushes scarlet.

Right now, Cas is bundled up in a sweater and scarf, complaining of the cold while Dean attempts to light the fire that he let go out while he was busy staring at his lover. His beer is abandoned on the table, Jess is setting up the Monopoly board, and Sam is just watching them all with a grin, drinking and snacking on salted cashews. Ruby is nosing about, licking Castiel's hand occasionally and snuggling close to him. She had been at the shelter, two days from euthanasia, when a battered and beaten-down Cas had wandered in, seeking comfort in canine form after splitting from the partner who threatened his life. She had been his lifeline and he her's. And Dean had been well informed on date one that Cas came with the dog, no compromises. She sheds her white fur everywhere, drools on everyone's lap if there's food around, and always barks excitedly at the postman, but she's loved by everyone who meets her. She's even going to be in the wedding, wearing a doggie bow tie and sitting at their feet in the pictures.

According to Cas, she was the first real love of his life. Because they don't talk about the years before her. Ever.

 **Present Day**

Dean steps out of the car on shaking legs and approaches the perimeter fencing. A quick flash of his badge is all it takes to get him through; he's still in his uniform and nobody tends to question a Homicide Detective at the scene of a violent crime. His bloodshot eyes scan the officers and the forensic team for familiar faces and he spies a couple, so he turns away from them quickly, knowing he shouldn't be here. He'll be sent away if anyone sees him, anyone who knows that he's connected to Cas.

To the victim. He wants to spit the word from his mouth, never to speak or think it again. Victims aren't people he knows. They're unfortunate people who were in the wrong place at the wrong time, people with families who love them and mourn them, people Dean deals with then closes the door on. But now, he's more involved than he ever thought he would be in his wildest nightmares. Castiel is a victim. Fuck. His hand throbs painfully and will probably need an x-ray but he managed to wipe most of the blood away and the cuts on his split knuckles have stopped bleeding now.

He shouldn't be here, for a hundred reasons. He hopes Chief Harvelle has kept it quiet that the situation is connected to one of their officers. But he draws a breath in deep, feels his lungs expand until it hurts, and walks down the alley to the end, where two guys that he doesn't recognise are crouched over taking photos of the numbers on the concrete. The markers that show the presence of some form of evidence. Blood, DNA, clothing, a weapon, anything that would indicate the presence of the victim or the attacker. He steels his nerves, clenches his shaking hands, and tries to pull on his mask. Homicide Detective Dean Winchester, at your service. He's almost convincing.

"Talk to me, guys." His voice shakes but that's all right. These two don't know him, don't know that he normally sounds so much more confident and in control. He can do this, bluff his way through. He needs to know what's happening, what's happened, and what he needs to do. "What happened here?"

One of them glances up and straightens. He's scrawny, a little goofy-looking, and had a kind smile. "Officer Winchester, right?"

Fuck. "Detective Winchester. Do I know you?"

"No, sir. But I know you by reputation, of course. I didn't know you were assigned to this case, aren't you from Homicide? Oh!" The guy's confused expression suddenly clears. "The vic died, right? That's why you're here? Damn. Well, we ain't surprised. Nobody was gonna walk away from this, not from the looks of things. Guess the only good thing is the poor SOB didn't suffer any more, right?" He offers Dean a wry smile and it takes every ounce of control not to slam him against the wall and knock him unconscious.

"He's alive." The words come as a whisper and he has to repeat them. "He's alive. I want to know what happened here. Talk me through everything."

"Sir? Are you alright, you look a little pale." The second guy stands up, frowning and stripping off his latex gloves.

"I'm fine. Answers, please." It's a struggle to talk. He thinks of Cas, alone, back at the hospital and he regrets coming. But he needs to know. His hand throbs painfully.

"Well, the majority of it all happened here." The second guy gestures to the area they're standing in; right at the end of the alley way by a chain metal fence which is padlocked shut. No chance of escape. Claustrophobia threatens and Dean swallows in reaction. "Shreds of fabric, buttons from a pair of jeans found over there… the rape definitely happened here."

Jesus. The way the guy says the word chills Dean to the bone and suddenly makes him think: this is how he talks of his crime scenes. So clinically, so detached, as though there isn't a person involved. A family. He goes cold all over and forces himself to listen as the guy continues.

"We've already swabbed blood, saliva and semen samples. Doesn't look like the attacker used a condom which is good for us, and like gold dust to the profilers. A guy willing to commit rape and attempted murder but not bother to cover his tracks? Rare. Have they taken DNA samples from the vic yet?" Dean shakes his head, although in truth he doesn't know. He blocks the mental images from his mind of officers checking in Cas' mouth to see if he managed to bite his attacker, checking under his fingernails for blood or scraps of tissue, looking between his legs… "Looks like the guy came to at some point. Tried to drag himself away." The forensics expert takes a few steps, pointing at the ground and at the wall; Dean follows close behind, head swimming. There's a bloody handprint on the corner of a dumpster, low down. Cas had been crawling, dragging himself away, trying to get to safety… Dean sways and a hand settles on his arm. It's the first guy, looking concerned.

"Sir? Are you sure you're all right?"

"I'm fine… what's your name?" His tongue sticks to the top of his mouth and his hand aches.

"Fitzgerald, sir. Garth Fitzgerald IV, sir, Evidence Tech."

"I'm fine. Fitzgerald, talk me through the rest of it." Floodlights have been set up, illuminating everything so brightly that it could be the middle of a summer's day. A chilly, awful summer's day. Cas loves summer…

"He got to about here," Fitzgerald takes over telling their findings, swiping at the ground with his foot just shy of a line of tape and a small number eight on a plastic card next to a parked, burned out car. "Then the guy caught up to him. Either that or he stood by and watched his victim's escape attempt because damn, the vic won't have been in any shape at all to try and move quickly. Again, something else for the profilers. He knifed him…" Dean swallows a mouthful of bile. "Once…" There's a puddle of tacky, almost dry blood. "Then again…" A second, larger puddle. "Somehow he managed to drag himself a bit further, then collapsed. Tried to get up and then…" Fitzgerald mimes swinging a tyre iron and Dean's vision whites out for a second. There's blood on the wall, splattered on the window of the car and pooled on the ground. So much blood. He knows head injuries bleed like hell, always has done, but knowing who the blood belongs to gives the whole scene a totally different aspect. "And this is where the civilian found him and called the cops."

"Right…" Dean's voice sounds far away to his own ears. Cas was so close to the street. So close to the back door of the gay bar they met in all those years back, and nobody came to his aid. Nobody ran to help. He suffered through this hell alone, and he tried so hard to escape. Was he thinking of Dean? Was he calling for him, begging for him to come? Was he screaming? Crying? Both, neither? What was he thinking when he knew what was going to happen to him, did he fight even harder? Did he…

"Winchester!" Chief Harvelle's voice cuts into his haze and he jerks, stunned, having almost forgotten where he is. "Dean!"

Her hand clamps down on his arm and she spins him around to face her. He goes and almost stumbles, nausea rising as Fitzgerald's words echo in his ears. Through glassy eyes he sees his impression of swinging a tyre iron again but when he blinks the tech is staring at him, shocked into silence by how awful he clearly looks.

"Dean," Ellen's tone is urgent now and she grips him by both arms. "What the hell are you doing? Why are you here? Why aren't you at the hospital? Oh…" She releases him and covers her mouth with a hand. "No… he didn't…"

"He's… alive." The words are bitter on his tongue. His hand throbs a he clenches it. "It's bad. He's…"

He needs to sit down before he falls and Ellen seems to sense that at the same time Fitzgerald does. They guide him out of the alley and then he's sitting in a cop car, in the back seat with the door open and his head in his hands. He should never have come here. His mind is swimming, his vision clouded with both the known and the unknown, and a few miles away Cas is fighting for his life and Dean left him. How could he do that? Why did he think this was a good idea?

Ellen is talking into her cell, sending him mixed expressions of agony, concern and frustration, and a moment later she's standing over him and nudging him into the car.

"Go on. In. Wally is taking you back to City. I don't know what you were thinking Dean, coming back here." Her voice is kinder than her words. "You need to be with Cas right now. Let us do our job, you do yours." She touches him on the arm and he stares up, desperate. "We'll get him, Dean. I promise you that. Yeah, this is Harvelle…"

She's talking into her cell again and closes the door gently on him. He leans against the window and watches his colleagues secure the crime scene, watches the techs do their work, take their photos, log their evidence. He wants to go home. Wally, a guy Dean only knows in passing, has turned on the siren presumably to get him back to the hospital faster and he thanks him silently. He wants to go home. Wants to crawl into bed with Cas and fall asleep in his husband's arms, and wake up to smiles and sweet kisses, wants to complain about the dog hair and laugh as Ruby jumps on them for a morning cuddle.

He just wants Cas.


	3. Chapter 3

Cas… Cas doesn't look like Cas. Dean is standing in the doorway to the private room in ICU where they've taken Castiel, and he can't bring himself to move any closer. His own hand is bandaged, two fingers splinted and he'd refused painkillers: he wants it to hurt. He wants to feel even an ounce of the agony Cas felt, because he's come to the conclusion that he deserves it. His job is to protect people, and he couldn't even protect Cas. He failed. His entire body tenses at the word and Sam touches him lightly on the back.

"It's all right, Dean. You can go in. Dr. Shepherd…"

"I don't care, Sam." Dean's voice is icy, robotic. "I don't give a fuck, Sam, what anyone says. It's Cas, man. Cas."

He isn't making much sense, he knows. But Sam seems to get it and doesn't push him to enter the room again. His brother had clearly wanted to tear him a new one when he arrived in the cop car with Wally but had hugged Dean instead and sat him down with a cardboard cup of warm coffee in his hands and waited by his side for Dr. Shepherd to appear. That was a while ago now, and he's finally been given permission to go up and see Cas. He's settled in the ICU and Dr. Shepherd has cleared him for visitors. But Dean is frozen, the feeling pulsing through his veins recognisable as terror. He's afraid, afraid of what he's going to see when he approaches Cas' bed. Sam is behind him, trying to calm him, and Cas' neurologist is at his bedside: if there's ever going to be a good moment for him to see Cas for the first time, this is it. With support from both his family and the medical team. But he can't move, not even an inch.

Dr. Shepherd glances up from writing on his clipboard and gives Dean a warm, encouraging smile. He's a calming presence and Dean finds he trusts this man to save Cas. If anyone can do it, it's Shepherd. He's up near Cas' head, reading something from one of the monitors, something that would never make sense to Dean but likely tells the neurosurgeon everything he needs to know about his patient's current condition. The machine beeps and Dean swallows.

"It's all right, Dean. You can come in." Shepherd pockets his pen and sets his clipboard aside. "You should come and see him, let him know you're here."

Steeling his nerves, drawing a painfully deep breath and gripping the doorframe, he walks into the ICU and approaches his husband's bed. Cas is hooked up to so many wires and monitors that it makes Dean's vision blur, but the most traumatic for him is the ventilator slowly pushing air into the lungs of the man he loves. They've made the decision to put Cas into an induced coma using a dose of barbiturates, and Dean's hand had trembled so badly when he signed the consent form that he had torn the page with the nib of the pen. He pauses at the foot of the bed, unable to move any closer, and feels Sam's presence at his shoulder, hears his shocked inhale as he sees Cas for the first time. He doesn't look at his husband's face, not at first. He looks at his arm, the one nearest to him which is in a cast from his knuckles up and Dean's gaze follows the fibreglass bandages up, up over Castiel's forearm to his elbow. The golden tan of his skin stands out so starkly against the white and all Dean can think of is Cas in the garden during summer, on his knees planting the flowers he loves to tend and smiling over his shoulder as Dean brings him lemonade to quench his thirst, Ruby trotting at his heels. His gaze travels across Cas' chest, across the blandly patterned hospital gown to his other arm, grazed but otherwise unscathed - at least from the assault - and he wants to reach for him. Wants to take his hand and tell him everything will be OK. But he can't make himself move any closer.

"Dean," Shepherd's voice is soothing to his overwrought nerves. "It's all right. Come closer, come to this side."

He's talking quietly, apparently sensing how close Dean is to truly snapping, and it helps. He manages to make his legs work and approaches Shepherd, still unable to look at Cas' face for fear of what he's going to see. He's been wracking his brains to try and think about the last time he saw Cas and the last things they said to each other but it's all a blur. Was it when he kissed him goodbye before Cas left for work? It must have been but he can't remember it. Dr. Shepherd guides Dean towards a chair and he sits, woodenly, his legs unable to hold him up any longer. He's now staring straight at Cas' hand resting on the sheets, unmarked and skin smooth - at least until his forearm but Dean doesn't look up that far - and the neurosurgeon follows his gaze.

"Do you want to hold his hand?"

Dean stares through a wall of tears. "I don't want to hurt him."

"You won't." Shepherd carefully lifts Cas' limp hand, mindful of the IV taped to the back of it, and Dean reaches forward to take it in both of his. It's the feel of Cas' warm, familiar skin on his that brings it all home and he leans forward, both elbows on the bed, and presses his husband's fingers to his forehead, closing his eyes. The constant low beep of the heart rate monitor combined with the rhythmic inhale-exhale of the ventilator grates on his senses and eventually he can't avoid it any longer. He opens his eyes and, pressing Cas' fingers to his lips, turns his head to look at his partner's face. He tries his hardest to pull down his professional mask, the one that allows him to detach from emotional situations and just take in the facts, but he's too exhausted. He can't do it. And Cas… just doesn't look like the man he knows, and that fact alone makes it so hard to accept.

Looking past the tube going into his mouth and the tape keeping it from shifting and chafing his skin, he doesn't take in what he sees for a moment. Cas has clearly taken a beating, there's no doubt about that. His cheekbone and temple are mottled blue and yellow and there's hints of dried blood at his lips and nose. Most of his dark hair is obscured by bandages which taper off round the side of his head and his thick eyelashes rest too firmly on his ashen cheeks. Dean has always thought people in comas looked to be sleeping, but Cas doesn't. He looks on the edge of death and he grips the warm hand tighter with his own, trying to ground himself and remind himself that Cas isn't dead, that he's a fighter and he's strong, and that Shepherd and his team are going to save him and make this right again. His chest rises and falls slowly in too strict a rhythm for Dean to even pretend it's natural. He isn't sure how long he sits and stares at Cas, but eventually Sam's conversation with Shepherd breaks through the white noise in his ears.

"He's very strong, and he's fighting hard," Shepherd is saying. He has the clipboard back in his hand and his arms folded across his chest. Dean stares at the wrinkles in his coat where his elbow is, and thinks of Cas' broken arm. "We'll do another CT scan tomorrow and see how he's doing. I don't want to say anything to give you too much hope at this point because he's in a serious condition, but if the swelling has gone down and we're starting to see some pupillary response when we reverse the sedatives then I'm cautiously optimistic. But you have to prepare yourself, Dean," Shepherd turns to him with serious, studious eyes. "For him sustaining lasting damage from this assault. I can't say what kind," He hurries to add, sensing an interruption. "It's too early to tell. But this kind of head injury takes time to recover from. It could be something very minor, a slur in his speech or patterned memory loss, or it could be more profound. We'll know more in twenty-four hours."

"Can he hear me?" Dean adjusts his grip on Cas' hand, stroking his wrist and arm, feeling the way his honeyed skin turns from smooth to rough and twisted beneath his fingers, scarred, so familiar yet so alien to him right now, and turns his attention back to his husband. "If I talk to him, can he hear me?"

"We like to think so," There's a sympathetic smile in Shepherd's voice and Dean nods once in reaction.

He wonders if the neurosurgeon knows about Cas' other injuries. From the… Come on, Dean, he berates himself. You have to learn the word. It's happened, it's happened to Cas and you're both going to have to deal with the aftermath. Learn the word and learn how to cope with it. Because Cas will have to. Shepherd hasn't mentioned anything in relation to Cas' rape, but then again why would he? Should he? Should Dean ask? But how would he go about asking how bad Cas is hurt in that sense?

"Doc, we know what's happened to him." Sam's voice quakes a little. "The rest of the… assault. Can you tell us if he's going to be OK? Physically?"

Oh. That's how.

"Physically, he should make a full recovery." Shepherd seems confident in that answer. "And we have a team he can speak to for support, which we always recommend after trauma like this. I'll get Grey to write the contacts down for you."

"Thank you."

They talk a little more but Dean tunes them out. He sits and watches Cas, elbows propped up on the bed and Cas' hand clasped in both of his, pressed against his lips. Before he knows what he's doing, uncaring of the other people in the room, he starts to talk quietly.

"I'm so sorry, Cas. I'm so sorry I couldn't save you. But I'll get us through this, I promise. I'll make it all right again, I swear it to you. I don't care how long it takes, I don't care what you need from me, I'll make it right. And whoever did this to you…"

His voice cracks and he trails off, closing his eyes. He'll kill them. He'll get to them before his colleagues do, before anyone does, and he'll rip them limb from limb for what they've done. Cas doesn't deserve this. He doesn't deserve pain and fear and uncertainty, or lasting damage from an assault that should never have happened. Cas is the kindest, most caring person he's ever met, everyone says so. He's got a big heart, full of love, and always, always tries to do the right thing. He doesn't deserve to be lying here right now. He doesn't deserve any of this. He pulls his chair a little closer and extends a shaking hand - his fingers brush Cas' cheek and, when there's no response at all, Dean crumbles. He can't be strong any more. He can't carry on without Cas. He lowers his head to the bed by Cas' shoulder, pulls his husband's hand into his chest and holds it there, and lets the tears come.

 **April, Five Years Ago**

"Cas! Hey, Cas!"

A familiar voice is calling to him from a booth near the back, a little too enthusiastically, and Castiel blushes and smiles. The diner is so typical of Dean: retro, colourful, lively, and with cheesy rock music and food to die for. And he can see his date now that the waitresses have moved out of the way - Dean's wearing a battered brown leather and is smiling, waving at him, and Castiel is reminded all over again just how handsome he is. Dirty blonde hair, pretty eyes, a smile to die for… Cas feels his throat clench with his excitement to be on this date. He really, really likes Dean. Like, a lot. He hopes today goes as well as the last few have done.

He takes his seat and Dean hands him a menu, leaning over the table to plant a bashful kiss on his cheek.

"You look great."

"Thank you." Cas blushes again. He should really see someone about this, it's becoming a real problem since Dean appeared on the scene.

His outfit is entirely new. He had spent an age in front of his closet, staring at the mass of plain pants and characterless shirts before deciding that he couldn't go out to meet Dean looking like he'd just wandered in from work. So he had spent the majority of his afternoon at the mall, taking awkward photos of himself in changing rooms and texting them to his twin brother, Jimmy, who is someone important at some flashy, modern tech magazine in New York, and who is unfairly and effortlessly stylish. Jimmy always jokes that he got the looks and Cas got the brains, and it's actually pretty true. Cas' job as an archivist at the city museum library isn't exactly glamorous, and Jimmy's job of (apparently, according to him) saying yes to attractive posters and magazine spreads doesn't exactly challenge his intellect. But they're both happy in their lives so they figure they both win. Eventually, with some persuasion from his twin, Cas had settled on dark denim jeans paired with a soft cashmere sweater with the finest horizontal pinstripes and a black blazer thrown over the top. Black ankle boots complete his outfit and, for the first time in a while, he knows he looks good. Dean's gaze roves over him and there's a spark of hunger in his eyes which makes Castiel feel both excited and anxious. He picks up his menu to distract from his burning cheeks.

"The burgers are so good here. And the hot dogs," Dean chatters away excitedly as Cas peruses the menu. "And the cheese fries, we have to share some. You'll love them, I promise."

"I'm sure I will." Cas lowers his menu, infected by Dean's enthusiasm and gazes warmly at him from across the table. "It all looks so good that I can't choose. I'll have whatever you're having."

"Really?" Dean's face splits into a wide grin. "Awesome. I choose the best food, I swear. You'll be in culinary heaven."

"I hope so."

The waitress takes their orders - burgers with double cheese, bacon, BBQ relish, all the side orders Dean can think of plus milkshakes plus two beers - then finally they're free to relax and chat properly. Cas, as always, worries he won't be interesting enough for Dean who seems to lead an extremely hectic life as a cop, recently promoted to crime scene investigator. He's full of stories, both horrifying and enthralling, and Cas feels shabby in comparison. But it seems genuine when Dean asks him about work, and when Cas tells him he's been starting to translate some ancient scripts from Aramaic into Latin Dean's jaw practically hits the table.

"Is that a joke? You're joking, right? You can't do that?"

"I can, actually." Cas colours, yet again. "I have a particular interest in historic languages and translating texts. It's not the main part of my job, but it's the part I enjoy the most. I," He blushes further. "Enjoy it as a hobby."

"Wow." Dean seems stunned; he sits back in the booth with his palms flat on the table. The green of his v-neck sweater really brings out his eyes, and the fabric hugs his biceps enticingly. "Cas, that's…" He laughs self-deprecatingly. "Look at you, Mastermind himself sitting here with a dumb cop. I bet you're wondering where my doughnuts are right about now."

"I don't think you're dumb." Cas frowns, the concept utterly lost on him. "You're an incredible person, Dean. You're out saving lives and protecting people while I'm surrounded by dusty old books. I'm surprised you haven't fallen asleep by now, listening to me talk."

The waitress appears before Dean can respond, giving Cas a welcome distraction. He stares fiercely at his food, old insecurities welling up inside him. He knows he's not very interesting, he's been told that plenty by… others. Dean doesn't need to pretend. But before he can glance up and say anything, Dean's hand snakes into his field of vision and cautiously takes hold of his.

"You're fascinating, Cas." Dean's eyes are magnetic and Castiel feels his heart stutter in his chest. "I love hearing you talk about your work. Don't ever let anyone make you feel inferior, because you're far from it. You're easily the smartest guy I've ever met."

They smile at each other for a long moment before the shriek of a passing child jars them back to reality, and soon they're both tucking into their food with relish.

"This is really good, Dean." Cas almost swoons at the first bite of his burger. "I don't have much time to cook or go to restaurants, so this… makes me very happy."

"Well, I'll have to cook for you on our next date, then. Teach you some tricks." Dean smiles, a smear of ketchup on his bottom lip. Cas resists the urge to lean over and lick it off, a totally uncharacteristic desire for him to have.

"A cop who cooks? Now I know I'm in heaven," He grins, trying his hand at flirting. It seems to work because Dean's eyes sparkle at him across the table.

"Oh, I'm full of surprises, Cas. That I can promise you."

They talk for hours. They smile, laugh, and Cas has the best time ever. He can't remember enjoying another person's company so much for a long time - if ever before. Dean is sweet, charming, and seems to really like him, if Cas' slightly rusty people skills are anything to go by. They've finished dessert (shared a slice of apple and cherry pie with a side of ice cream sundae) and Cas is confined he's gained four pounds just from the last hour. They're holding hands across the table and the night has grown dark outside, the windows of the diner reflecting their love-struck expressions as they watch each other.

Dean's fingers, which have been absently stroking the back of Castiel's wrist while they talked, have now moved up a little to brush against his forearm, just under his sleeve, and he jolts back in reaction then, feeling guilty for pulling away, reaches for his milkshake glass as a distraction. Dean's eyes widen a fraction but he doesn't say anything, and for that Cas is grateful.

He hasn't decided yet how to approach the subject of his past with Dean but he knows it will be a short, to the point conversation and it won't be discussed again. He knows he has to tell him, at least that's what his therapist has said, but the idea of it makes his skin crawl. Dean surely won't want to see him any more after finding out Cas has such a traumatic past, after learning that he's damaged goods. Dean is wonderful: smart, charming, funny and incredibly sweet under all his false bravado. He could have anyone. And it seems like he wants Cas, but surely all that will change when Cas tells him. When he shows him the scars. And he has to, of course he does. It's April, so he can be excused for wearing long sleeves but for how long? And what happens if Dean wants to become intimate with him? He'll have to get undressed for that, and then Dean will see. He'll see everything. Anxiety spikes and he feels his palms start to sweat in nervous reaction. The backs of his thighs hurt, where they're pressed against the chair. It's psychosomatic, of course, but the pain feels real. He drains the rest of his milkshake, stalling, trying to decide what to do. Should he tell Dean now? Is the fourth date too early? But Dean is gazing at him from across the table with a mixture of trepidation and concern and Cas is drawing a blank when it comes to excuses for pulling away.

"Dean, I, um…"

"I'm sorry, Cas, I didn't mean to…" The vague gesture Dean makes with his hand is accurate. He didn't do anything. Didn't do anything wrong, at least. It's Castiel who has the issues.

"It's alright. I…" He sets his glass down in front of him and toys with the straw, staring down into it as though it can somehow provide him with a way out of this conversation. It can't, so he takes a deep breath. "There's something I should probably tell you, before we get more involved. Not that I'm assuming we will get more involved, of course," he hurries to clarify, embarrassed to think Dean may see him as jumping the gun. "But… I'd like to. Because I like you, and I hope you like me. So… just in case. There's… there are a few things you should know. About me."

"Like what, Cas?" He can tell Dean is trying to sound light, but there's a note of concern underlining his words. "Are you on the run? A serial killer I need to arrest? A celeb in disguise?"

In spite of himself, Castiel smiles. A celeb in disguise, well, that sounds a lot more fun than the truth. "No, Dean, none of that." His right hand goes unconsciously to his left, covering his forearm through his clothing. Dean's gaze follows his movement. He casts around once more for a lifeline to get him out of telling his story then, resigned, starts to talk. "I've only ever had one serious relationship before. It was with a friend of my father's and it was… difficult. It was a poor match to begin with and I should have listened to everyone's concerns, but I was twenty-five and headstrong, so I thought I knew best. He… we were happy to start with. But then, after a couple of years, things really started to change, and… he became… things… deteriorated…"

 **Present Day**

Benny calls to check in. They talk for a while, Dean answering in monosyllabic grunts while Benny tries to reassure him that the cops are out hunting for the assailant and that they're putting together all the pieces they can to try and form a profile, a picture of how this happened, why, and who is responsible.

"I was there, Benny…" Dean's lips don't want to work properly as he voices something he's been mulling over in agony for hours. "Before. I drove down that street a couple hours before it all happened. Why didn't I stop? Look around? What if…" He can't articulate the rest. What if he drove pastwhile all this was going on? While Cas was being…

"Cher, stop. Don't do it to yourself. You couldn'ta known. No way. Don't torture yourself. We'll get this guy, put him behind bars, I promise, brother."

His cheeks are wet with tears but he nods mechanically. He can't change the past, and no amount of beating himself up will alter that fact. Dean doesn't remember what else he says to Benny, but he does remember learning that Cas' laptop and his own have been taken to the station and will be scanned for clues as to why Cas was out in the middle of the night, and to see if anything can link him to a possible suspect. Dean gives Benny their passwords and disconnects the call shortly after. He knows his friend wants to be there with him but right now the best thing Benny can do is to start hunting for this guy. Give Dean a head start. If anyone can find this son-of-a-bitch, it's team Winchester-Lafitte.

Shepherd and Grey come back, and Grey shines a light into Cas' eyes while Shepherd watches and makes notes. Dean watches them work. They have an easy camaraderie together, as if they've known each other or worked with each other a long time. Subtle glances, the brush of hands here and there… Dean recognises the signs. They're involved. He's still holding Cas' hand, doesn't think he'll ever be able to let go.

"How long have you been together?" The words spill out before he can properly formulate them and damn, he did not mean to ask that. But he needs a distraction desperately, has been sitting alone at Cas' side for what seems like months, and he's clinging to the first thing he can think of. They trade a glance then Grey answers.

"A while."

"Us, too." Dean strokes his thumb in slow circles over the back of Cas' hand. "Almost five years."

"That's a long time. You must be very happy." Grey is watching him with a small smile, her long hair tucked behind one ear. She doesn't look particularly approachable, but maybe she's one of those people you warm up to after a while.

"We are." He watches Cas' face for any sign of life and, finding none, sighs. "I can't believe someone would do this to him. To us. It must have been…" Terrifying. "Was it…" Random? A hate crime? Was Cas just in the wrong place at the wrong time? "I wish I could…" Go back in time. Protect him. Do something.

"Just being here is enough right now." Shepherd assures him, writing something on his clipboard and giving Grey a pointed look. "We'll give you some privacy. But don't hesitate to call one of us if you need anything, or if you're concerned."

Concerned. Dean bypassed concerned hours ago, what he's feeling now is cold, bitter fear. Fear of losing Cas completely, fear of him not returning the way he was, fear of what Dean himself will do without him. And fear of what he'll do when he gets his hands on the guy who did this. He has all that to deal with and more when Cas wakes up. When, not if. Because of course Cas will wake up. The other option is… unfathomable, and it makes him feel nauseous to even touch on it. Cas will return to him. He has to.

But for now, all Dean can do is wait. He can sit and hold Cas' hand and talk to him, try and reassure him in any way he can. But beyond that, he's helpless. And it's killing him.

It's been twelve hours since the attack.


End file.
